


Indecent Acts During Food Preparation

by StrivingArtist



Series: Delicious [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Food Porn, Happy Fun Times at the Lonely Mountain, M/M, PWP, Post BotFA, Shameless Smut, flirty!Bilbo, horndog!Thorin, then porn porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a reclaimed Erebor, Bilbo insists on taking charge of cooking for the Company at their monthly evenings together. Bilbo is an excellent, and very passionate cook. This leads to Thorin realizing exactly what he is hungry for....</p><p> </p><p>Shameless Food Porn that devolves rapidly into Shameless Smut.<br/>Written for this prompt: “Bilbo makes sex noises while cooking until Thorin is overcome and ravishes him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indecent Acts During Food Preparation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mephestopheles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/gifts).



> Written off a prompt for the wonderful MEPHESTOPHELES (who regularly keeps me amused, encouraged and writing) who came up with the idea with me yesterday. 
> 
> Prompt::: “Bilbo makes sex noises while cooking until Thorin is overcome and ravishes him.”
> 
> I did try to keep the dishes to things that would be possible, but I refuse to believe in a world without chocolate, so blame the Easterlings, I guess. But Bilbo has no problem spending Erebor's gold if it means better meals, so I imagine he can get ahold of quite a lot. Other than that, just what it says on the tin.

Summer had come to Erebor. With it came a growing stream of refugees returning home, dreamers seeking new opportunities, and merchants who had heard all through the long winter about the strange, small creature that had travelled with the company and his distinctly un-dwarven buying habits.

Where the dwarves of the mountain revelled in the markets to be certain, the smallest company member had reportedly squealed at the news that the first of the food merchants had been sighted. Apparently he had nearly fainted when he heard that there were Easterling spice merchants travelling up from the far south. The rumors spread as ravens swept in and out of the mountain towards every corner of Arda. So more traders and merchants hurried out their doors, bundling up what they had of value and damn near sprinting for the Mountain.

For best of all, the little hobbit seemed to be far from parsimonious with what was rumored to be a tremendous personal wealth.

* * *

 

Thorin had overheard his company talking to the hobbit during the quest about cooking, but had hardly paid it any mind. They were on the road, and while they did try to eat better than raw cram and water, the fine roasts of meat and decadent fruit pastries they drooled over were out of the realm of possibility. So there was no need to fixate.

True, they were able to eat finer fare at the Master’s table, but Thorin had watched the hobbit scoff at what the men of the lake considered feast day levels of cookery.

So, naturally, once the mountain was reclaimed and the company had left their various sick beds, he had quietly ensured that the private kitchen attached to the palace was cleared completely. For the time, the entirety of the Company was in residence in one room or another of what had been the Palace. It was simply easier in the rubble cluttered mountain.

Even with them in residence it had been difficult to keep track of them all, and the suggestion of a set meal on the evening of each new moon was met with loud approval.

The hobbit had insisted he be responsible for the cooking.

But, when they gathered in the dining room for the first meal, Bilbo had fretted and worried and apologized so much over how much the meal was lacking that they were expecting gruel and dried meat.

Instead, their littlest member had brought out an array that surpassed the nascent plans for the coronation feast. There were trays of pastries: some stuffed with minced and spiced rabbit; the deep savory flavor interrupted by flashes of sweet raisins; others were filled with cheese and dried tomatoes. A slab of roasted beef -- and none could explain how in Mahal’s name he had come by it  -- was crusted in herbs and dotted with cloves of garlic. As they watched it lower onto the table, juices glistened and dripped, promising the meat to be more tender than the sight was entrancing.

There were sweet rolls fair drowning in honey and butter. There was a low dish of sliced root vegetables in cream sauce baked beneath a gooey layer of bubbling cheese. There was a full barrel of ale in the corner. There was even a smallish dish of berries and fruit chopped and dredged in sweetened cream set over ice.

And _this_ , he called a poor example of his skills.

Now, it would be unfair to say that the moment Thorin first tasted the roast he fell in love with Bilbo Baggins. However, the way that the flavors swept through his mouth, the tender way the meat fell apart, and the succulent sensation of the traces of fat melting like butter on his tongue certainly had an impact on the feelings he already held. That first bite drew an unintended half-moan of long suppressed pleasure from deep in his gut.

He had been fond, before.

He had admired him, surely.

In a distant and absolutely impartial way he had recognized the beauty.

But over the course of that first meal, while the company gorged themselves until every last pan and dish was wiped clean, the idea of Bilbo as _more_ wormed its way deep in Thorin’s chest.

So with the moon turned new once more, the company was eager to pile into the chamber and feast again. None more so than Thorin.

Where last time they had arrived on schedule, all within minutes of Bilbo’s requested appointment, this time many were waiting nearby almost an hour before hand. Fili, Kili and Ori were the first, staring dreamily towards the hall that led to the kitchen as waves of enticing smells wafted out of it. With youth on their side, they had probably fasted since that morning to make more room.

Thorin reclined in a cushioned chair by the fire with a pipe-- one of the hobbit’s additions to the room, now that he thought of it-- and did his best to appear less anxious than his nephews.

He was not as successful as he would have liked.

Really he should have known what the hobbit had been up to. After the merchants had left with effusive thanks and promises to be back as quick as they could organize a return trip, he had thought that the communal kitchens had been pleased with the selection.

No. It was entirely Bilbo’s fault.

He must have purchased some everything they had brought to achieve the variety of tastes and dishes he brought out that night.

Loaves of crusty bread were still warm under a towel. A stew of barley and venison accompanied them, almost a call back to their time on the road but infinitely more refined, with delicately layered flavors and slivers of browned onions. He had made cutlets of mutton stuffed with greens and goat cheese, and knew to make enough for them all to have several. There were potatoes and yams baked and mashed with butter that were somehow smoother than any root vegetable had any business being. There was a platter of small fish from the lake that had been dredged in flour, fried in oil and garnished with lemon that had, for some reason, set Dwalin howling with laughter.

Thorin surreptitiously, or so he thought, watched the cook through the meal. He watched as he dragged his tongue over the butter and honey drizzled on his bread. Understandable, the newest delivery from Beorn had been excellent.

He watched as scoops of potatoes vanished behind soft lips and the spoon was drawn out slowly, sucked clean. But surely, any implication was his imagination.

He watched as Bilbo traced a finger lazily around a bowl of soup and licked the last remnants of it from the digit. The dish must have been a favorite.

Thorin shook his head and focused on...well whatever Dwalin was talking about.

For dessert Bilbo brought out biscuits and scones and tea and apologized all the while that he had not been able to come by more fruit this time.

Lounging against the leg of the chair after the meal concluded, Thorin listened to the company trying to convince the hobbit that outdoing himself was impossible, not that they would object to his trying. Bilbo had ousted the King under the Mountain from “the only comfortably cushioned chair in the mountain at present” and was happily assuring them all that they need only wait for the real caravans to see what he was really capable of doing.

Talk drifted to whether all hobbits could achieve such culinary greatness, and if so, whether they could import a cartload of cooks along with the the barrels of Longbottom Leaf Bilbo had ordered.

“No no no. Don’t be absurd. Not all hobbits cook like I do, just as not all dwarves are warriors or poets or smiths. Even if they did, the odds of you finding even one other hobbit willing to trek all the way here just to fill your bellies with quality meals is laughable.” Unknowingly, and it must have been such, Bilbo shifted in his seat, pressing his leg against Thorin’s shoulder as he took a long draw from his own pipe before continuing. “However, in the Shire, food is considered the foundation of any good romance. I know that doesn’t make sense to all of you, but hobbits have neither inclination nor wealth to be trading shiny gems and precious metal back and forth. So we cook, for family of course, like you great lumps, and also for sweethearts, though for them we mainly stay with desserts. It’s difficult to seduce someone with a roast.”

Thorin found the fire very interesting.

Conversation drifted on, but Bilbo’s leg stayed where it was, a gentle pressure and niggling preoccupation while the night wore on.

 

* * *

 

So it continued. Time passed, caravans arrived, in greater quality and frequency, and the land returned to life.

The tradition of feasts in the dark of the moon was set permanently. And as the first blooms of spring poked through the snow, the day after another sumptuous evening, Thorin was taking a long walk in the chilly air to settle himself.

His dreams had taken a turn for the inappropriate of late. Not that they had been wholly appropriate before. He would not deny that.

But last night...the things he had done to that hobbit...that he could no longer deny he _wanted_ to do that hobbit…that he wanted the hobbit to do to _him_...

Thorin sighed.

It was the fault of those damn pastry bar things. Eclairs. Apparently they were called eclairs. But as that announcement had been made after Bilbo had taken a bite of his, it was understandable that Thorin had not committed the name neatly to memory at first. The shape of them was innuendo enough for the now thoroughly besotted Thorin Oakenshield.

The image of Bilbo taking it in, an unnecessarily large mouthful in fact, was seared in his mind. But it was worse than just that. The pastry in question had been dipped in a chocolate sauce first.  Said chocolate had begun to drip, and the trail had been caught by a clever tongue that trailed back to the end of the treat before sucking out some of the cream inside. And merciful Mahal, of course they were filled with cream.

What crime had he committed to be subjected by his maker to such a torture?

Surely, surely, he had imagined the quirking smile that toyed at Bilbo’s cheek while the dessert was held to stretched lips and slipped inside. But before those same lips closed, before the bite had been taken, the confounded hobbit had locked his eyes with Thorin’s. That couldn’t be denied. Nor could the soft, appreciative moan Bilbo had let out at his accomplishment.

It was simply unfair. They were companions, shield brothers. Without the hobbit he would have neither the mountain nor his life. One simply did not spend a long late evening with a handful of handkerchiefs and a mind filled with fantasies of pastries and chocolates and shield brothers. Even if said shield brother _had_ kept eye contact as he licked a spill of stray cream from his chin and sucked clean his fingers of errant chocolate.

“Did you like that?” Bilbo had asked after dessert was done, the picture of innocent wonder. “One of my personal favorites.” The chef was clearly oblivious to what he was doing to the king.

Thorin snarled at the warming spring air. It was losing its efficiency.

The river would stay freezing cold for months yet. He needed to take up swimming.

* * *

 

Well, if he could not have the hobbit as he did with alarming frequency in his dreams, he could at least spend more time with him. Then at least he could savor the casual touches that sent bolts of heat shooting low in his stomach. Now comfortable around them, Bilbo had become more generous in his physical contact, not so much as a dwarf, but now hardly a day went by without at least a glancing brush of soft fingers along his hand.

It was remarkable in its own right that Bilbo always seemed to find that last scrap of bare skin to touch. If a hand was clapped to a shoulder, as he moved away said hand would manage to burn along the back of Thorin’s neck just for a moment. Just long enough, in fact, to make him sure it had happened, even if he also knew it to be an innocent action.

The greatest trouble of so much exposure to the wonder that was Bilbo Baggins was that smitten had turned to besotted had turned to beloved had turned to a consuming lust. All without the culinary wizard noticing. It was insufferable. He was clearly being tormented by Mahal for the inexcusable incident on the ramparts.

No other explanation.

Dwalin and the guard had requested he cease swimming in the river in a tone that was anything but a request. That had been two weeks ago.

And tonight was a new moon.

Of course it was.

Well, he certainly would not be able to keep away until the meal that evening. He would never survive that long.

A full caravan, complete with a full cart dedicated to spices, had arrived just two days earlier, and was already emptied and on its way home. The company had been buzzing ever since Bilbo had declared he finally had the supplies to do a proper meal. It was late morning. Bilbo was already cooking. He had to be.

There could be no harm in keeping him company. Learning about the process. Watching him sample dishes. Watching him retrieve things from low shelves.

No harm at all.

 

* * *

 

He was halfway down the hall to the kitchen when he heard it: A little mewl of pleasure that he knew in his bones came from Bilbo’s throat. Even as pleasure flooded up, a little curl of fury drifted down into his arousal.

In the months since reclaiming Erebor, he had never seen the hobbit display the slightest romantic affection for any of the other residents. Perhaps one of the newcomers had caught his eye? That flipped his stomach unpleasantly.  

Perhaps a member of the company--Bofur was his closest friend--had been secretly courting the hobbit. That thought still wrenched at him, but it was better than to think some stranger had just drawn that little plaintive cry from his hobbit’s mouth.

Not that he wasn’t going to kill _whoever_ was in there with Bilbo.

If it was Bofur though he might let him draw a weapon first. Possibly.

Another sound, more of a moan now, chased by a breathy whisper of “ _yes yes yes, Eru yes_ ” undid the strength in his legs.

On second thought, he would just kill them and have done with it, regardless of identity.

Just last night an imagined sound, so like that sensuous plea, had thrown him over the edge. It was better in reality. Bilbo would be better in reality.

There was another. This one a deeper, grittier sound.

Then a stuttered “Mm-mm-mm-mmmmm.”

This could not be withstood.

He continued down the hall, determinedly ignoring the pressure in his trousers that the sounds along the way had provoked.

And he stopped, still in the hall, and looked at a kitchen occupied by one.

Just the one hobbit dressed in trousers, shirt and suspenders, with flour smudged on his exposed arms and cheek. Just Bilbo who even now was licking something off his finger with fluttering eyelids. Who followed the display with a muttered, “Oh sweet Eru that is good.” before plunging his finger back into the bowl to drench it entirely in the translucent white syrup. This time it wasn’t just a lick to taste. He captured the whole digit in his mouth and Thorin could only gape as his hobbit’s cheeks hollowed. Even from the hall he could see as his tongue worked the syrup off, and there was no denying his arousal when he heard a low hum of pleasure working its way past the trapped finger.

It simply was not fair.

But as Thorin wasn’t particularly inclined to walk away from the sight of his hobbit so unashamedly, sinfully, deliciously involved in whatever he was cooking, he happily stayed to watch. And was rewarded.

Bilbo moved through the kitchen with all the grace he lacked on the battlefield, his pleasure in the task evident in the flush of his cheeks and ears. Pots were stirred, the oven was checked, and whenever he had a chance, he returned to the bowl on the counter to steal another taste. Each elicited a moan or a hum or a little trill of delight. He dropped a towel and knelt to pick it up with a quiet happy hum, then stayed there, retrieving some implement from the back of a shelf.

Thorin must not have seen Bilbo on his knees since his intentions towards the hobbit had shifted. It was setting off several days worth of newly refined fantasies.

As the pastries emerged from the oven and the fire banked to a lower temperature, Thorin realized his furtive observation might be ill received. And he should probably retreat.

Then a pastry was dipped into the sauce and sat for a moment, savoured and still dripping between Bilbo’s lips. The groan that travelled out the kitchen practically lit Thorin ablaze, but it was the debauched way that Bilbo let his head fall back with a flush and a tremor that undid the king’s self control

Without his permission his hand wandered towards his own straining arousal.

Which was, as it turns out, an unfortunate plan.

As his hand found its goal, Bilbo slipped the rest of the dessert, as well as his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, moaning louder than before.

And a half-suppressed groan slipped out of the King’s throat.

Had he been in his right mind, Thorin would have been bowing and reciting formalities and apologizing for the intrusion as he backed quickly down the hallway before taking up residence in one of the lower mine shafts until they gave him up as lost. Fortunately he was not. Some new breed of madness had him walking into the kitchen. Towards Bilbo, who had frozen, hand midair on its path to the table. His eyes were wide but without a trace of fear or shame.

Innocent.

It was not fair.

And in this moment, the strain in his trousers too insistent and those sounds still fluttering about his head, Thorin was willing to take the risk.

“Would you like a taste, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, holding up a spoon that had been rapidly dunked in the damn syrup. He realized the spoon was in his mouth only after he tasted the spicy sweet sauce. That groan was solely, _fine_ , almost solely, for the explosion of flavor. Clearly hobbits had some form of magic at their disposal.

“Good isn’t it? It’s the cardamom and clove I bought this week. The glaze goes over those little lemon cakes there. I have wanted to make these for you for _ages_.” Thorin cursed the Common tongue and it’s _useless non-specific conjugations_. Was that ‘you’ for him alone or for the company?

“Do you like it? Thorin?”

He realized he had not said anything yet, and as the only thoughts in his head would probably cause Bilbo to faint at the impropriety, he had to stay silent. After all, it would be a touch out of line to declare out of the blue that it was delicious and while he wanted more, it would have to wait until after he had ravished the hobbit, turned him into a boneless, sated mess, and that it would happen right here on the floor of the kitchen if they delayed any longer.

And there his mind went, filled to bursting with every dream and fantasy he had entertained in the past months. All rational, useful thought was gone and replaced with a fiery hunger he was having difficulty tamping down.

He was just getting his control back. He was still silent as his mind seemed unable to give orders to the rest of him. He was so close. Then…

Bilbo reached up with more of the lusciously entrancing glaze. It was no wonder he had been pulled back to it so much. Except this time the confectionary was idly dripping down a finger held out midway between them.

Like Bilbo was leaving him an option to decline.

And that was no option at all.  

He licked off the small taste and let his teeth catch gently against skin before reluctantly pulling his lips away.

A pleased little whimper turned his gaze to meet Bilbo’s.

Raw lust lurched in his stomach.

Even as a small mental voice murmured about how the hobbit was obviously unaware of what he was implying, Bilbo’s shocked expression flickered into a slight smirk, and Thorin saw his eyes grow dark. Which was, it turns out, the last straw.

The little gap left between them snapped shut as Thorin slid fingers into curly hair and wrenched them together. Cardamom and clove and sugar and Bilbo. And may the maker have mercy but the lips that were yielding open beneath his own were every bit as soft as he had hoped. He could feel little grains of sugar that had been stuck on Bilbo’s lip dissolving into his mouth as he pressed and sucked and worshipped.

He could smell the succulent drippings of the meat over the fire, the faint wisps of bread rising on the counter, the sharp notes of fruit in a hot pan, the subtle blend of spices in the air, and underneath it, he could smell the earthy hints that he knew was Bilbo himself.

He had gotten drunk on spirits less intoxicating.  

One hand slid down, following the line of the suspenders, only a soft pressure until he reached trousers. There, his fingers tightened around plump curves and yanked their bodies against each other. He hesitated for the space of thought at the necessity of stopping and having a lengthy, boring conversation regarding propriety and intentions. But Bilbo ground their hips together and damn near growled into Thorin’s parted mouth.

Conversation was going to have to wait.

This certainly couldn’t.

The hobbit had a hand buried in and pulling at Thorin’s hair, and the other pressed, hot as a brand, against the king’s chest. They collapsed back into their kiss, each struggling to claim the other, and consumed with heat and hunger. Bilbo whimpered and Thorin felt a shudder pass through the smaller body as he pulled away from that deft, damnable mouth to torment those pointed ears.  

His fantasy was proven true. They were every bit as sensitive as he hoped.

It was almost too much.

The frantically gasped mewls were wrecking him. And he could draw them forth with naught more than a slow drag of teeth over the edge of an ear and slight buck of his hips.  His hand clutched tighter at the hobbit’s arse and pulled up, just enough to show what he wanted.

Bilbo happily obliged, wrapping his arm around Thorin’s neck to lift himself off the ground and fully into the dwarf’s arms. Legs slid up to his waist, locking their hips together better now that the height difference had been disposed of. Thorin took the opportunity to spin and press his hobbit into the wall and continue torturing out those incredible sounds by sucking and nipping his way along the tendons of his neck.  

There was a spot, just below the curve of his jaw, that evoked a desperate, “Thorrrinnnn.”

That he did not spend in his trousers like an over eager youth would forever be a matter of personal pride.

But it was a near thing.

His name, moaned so urgently he could feel himself coiling under the pleasure of it, and from Bilbo’s mouth? It was...Well to be frank, he was no longer cogent enough to label how deeply that gripped him.

He did manage to separate from his task long enough to look at Bilbo’s face. It was slack and flushed with want. All the normal decorum utterly unstrung, leaving him a mess of obvious lust and wanton abandon that sung a beautiful harmony to Thorin’s intentions. Licking his lips to resist the need to immediately continue, Thorin finally managed to speak, “Have I mentioned my deep appreciation of your cooking?”

“Mmmmm. Anything in particular?”

“Everything.”

Thorin cupped his jaw and ran a thumb tenderly over the smooth cheek. It was so distinctly un-dwarven, so exotically foreign he could not help the slow undulation of his hips that dropped Bilbo’s mouth open and fluttered his eyes.

And sweet Mahal if he continued to make such noises neither of them would be present for the meal that night as they would have to spend the better part of the next _fortnight_ barricaded in his chambers without a stitch of clothing.

Then Bilbo’s tongue traced up the side of the thumb that rested too close. That was all the warning he got before his thumb vanished into warm wet heat. A firm lingering suction followed as it was drawn back out.  

“But Thorin, I think you had a favorite, and I’d like to know which, to see if I was right.” He murmured, pressing a slightly sucking kiss to the tip of his thumb. And there was that look in the dark eyes he could not stop staring it. It was the same damned look as the night with those damned eclairs. It was open and wanting and the most delectable invitation. Vowing to be furious later for not noticing it at the time, he swallowed and forced the words past the lump in his throat.

“The... _hrrm_...the uh, eclairs.”

“Oh good.”

Without really knowing how it happened, Thorin found himself pressed into a chair with a hobbit kneeling between his spread thighs. He quickly conjured an image of Thranduil and Gandalf in a similar position to maintain his control. He added the corpulent former Master of Laketown in a desperate gambit when Bilbo ran his hands confidently up from knees to hips to stomach to chest where he made quick work of the laces on his tunic.

It was dragged off with an insistence that made Thorin wonder if the hobbit would have shredded it had it taken longer.

While smaller, softer hands traced reverent paths through the curled hair on his chest, he pushed suspenders aside and worked the hobbit out of the silk shirt. For just a moment Bilbo’s arms were caught behind him, trapped in silk. They stared at each other with ragged breaths. But Thorin noted the little twitch of interest and filed the thought away for the next time.

If there was a next time.

Oh please let there be a next time.

But he let the shirt go, and carded his fingers through the toffee colored curls. Bilbo had somehow disposed of his belt without it being noticed and was already picking open the laces of Thorin’s trousers. Blessed relief from the confines of his clothing dropped Thorin’s head back with a sigh that turned to a rumbling growl when he felt hands and a tongue find his aching cock. Bilbo’s hands were gentle, but his tongue drew a long hard sweep from the base clear to the tip before circling there. He pressed a soft kiss to the tip and mouthed his way down the head enough to promise what was to come.

Sweet sacred forges of the founders.

How was it an even better image than the things he had done to that pastry.

Thorin gripped the curls for a moment, pausing his hobbit’s actions and relishing the sight of Bilbo panting and trembling, trying to reach the cock he had been savoring with an open yearning mouth.

It would be rude to deny him.

“ _Fasak_! Bilbo!” That was louder than intended.

How could it be otherwise when the hobbit had just swallowed down in a single move more than he had imagined him capable of? A hot tongue drew patterns on the underside and the hobbit looked up through a veil of lashes and curls to make eye contact. And he held it as he hummed and sank lower.

He was afraid to move, afraid to let go of the granite grip on his control lest he hurt him, but if one of them didn’t move soon…

Luckily Bilbo must have understood because he pulled back up, almost off, and began working a hand in time with his mouth. There was an endless stream of khuzdul pouring from Thorin’s mouth that he would never have the courage to translate or explain.

Were all hobbits like this? If they were it was no wonder they kept to themselves; the other races would have snatched them all up if even a fraction were capable of what Bilbo was demonstrating. And that was discounting what he did with food. That thought process shuddered to a halt when Bilbo’s second hand slipped into the open trousers and teased at his stones.

Now it really was too much.

But he was not going to let this moment, this unexpectedly perfect moment come apart without completely wrecking the hobbit he had invested in with so many fantasies.

So he pulled him into his lap, ignoring the wanting little protest and recaptured his impossibly talented mouth. He consumed every little sound. He claimed everything that was offered. He undid the last of the laces and freed Bilbo from what must have been an unbearable confinement.

Wrenching back from the kiss, he wrapped his hand around them both at once, and saw the tremble that travelled up Bilbo’s spine and spilled out of his mouth in a breathy yelp.

Neither of them were going to last long by the looks of it.

His own cock was still wet from its time Bilbo’s throat-- and wasn’t that a thought to keep him up at nights?-- but he did not want to hurt the hobbit with impatience.

Running his thumb up to catch the fluid leaking from them both he added it to the traces of spit, and slicked them both as he could. He stroked slowly, clinging to his self control to extract every bit of pleasure from his partner. His other hand was rubbing at Bilbo’s ear and neck, causing little jerks and thrusts as he hit particularly sensitive areas. What he wanted was to suck at each of those spots until dark bruises marked Bilbo as his own, but the idea of watching him come apart was too tempting.

So he stroked them patiently until the sweetly begging whispers were more ragged, more desperate, and only then did he let it intensify. Hitched breaths, dark eyes, and roaming, clawing hands told him when the hobbit was close. Which was just as well. He had never needed release so badly.

But Bilbo was just too beautiful like this. He glistened with sweat and his jaw twitched with a need to have something in it. He moaned loudly, wantonly.

“Thorinnnn.” He begged, hanging on the edge of finally coming. The sound of his name was what finished him, and his tightened fist and stuttering thrusts dragged Bilbo along with him.

Spent, soaked, filthy, and boneless, Bilbo melted into Thorin’s chest and nuzzled closer as they remembered how to breathe.  It took quite a while. But eventually the world around them returned, and Thorin noticed the kitchen again. Over the toffee curls he could see the tray of pastries, and the bowl of that sauce--entirely at fault for all this--beside them.

He could see pots of the stovetop and hoped that nothing had been ruined by the diversion. Bilbo would never forgive him if it was. And if he never forgave, there would be no chance of a repetition of the activities. That would be a tragedy.  So, promising to sneak Bilbo away after dinner that evening, he began rubbing the hobbit’s back to rouse him.

“Not that any of the others would notice if it were not perfect, but I expect something in this kitchen needs tending.”

Bilbo groaned in annoyance. Even that sound sent orders for his exhausted body to come to attention. Not that it was currently capable. Thorin was ready to slip away to find a much needed soak, but found himself dragged to the adjacent bath where he was cleaned and toweled and dressed once more before he was moved to a stool in the kitchen to sit.

Bilbo kept him busy through the afternoon, all tasks any child could have managed. Thorin was grateful for the simplicity when the cook snuck a bite of pastry and a sighing groan threatened to undo the king all at once.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing a longer Hobbit story that's looking to be rather smutty and is in vaguely similar to this in tone, so any critique on this would be much appreciated.  
> Thank you for reading! I love you guys.


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